I get lost in crowds: if I can, I remain invisible

to the hungry mouths. I stay unapproachable.

I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon.

Scarred by attention. And quietly addicted to innocence.



At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous

I’m stuck for words: or worse, I blether with the best of them.

I see their eyes glaze and they look for the drinks tray.

Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them. 



So, who am I? Come on: ask me, I dare you.

So, who am I? Come on: question me, if you care to.

And why not try to interrogate this apparition?



I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition.



In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,

I am detached in serious observation.

As a passenger, I become un-tethered when

I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company.



Herald Tribune or USA Today. Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay.

Asleep for the movie. Awake for the dawn 

dancing on England and hedgerows –

embossed on a carpet of green. I descend and –

forgive me – I mean to get lost in crowds.